I digress, I’ve actually created 9 posts already… chop chop! Yes, you will have to use your brain and actually produce a thought of your own. Don’t worry about exposing yourself… I’ll keep the questions light.
Ah. Sorry, the problem is now not my “condesension”, “anger”, “snottiness”, etc that you have previously complained about.
It is now not that I haven’t asked “one question” (I had).
It is now not that I haven’t “writt[en] a contrary post” (I had).
It is now that I haven’t foisted on this forum sufficient patronising, unsubstantiated AI-fueled slop.
Have you put these goal-post on wheels Mark? To help you move them so often?
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This is really twisting inward huh… I feel sorry for people that are so desperate for validation. I’m only responding… you can walk away any time. or maybe blocking is better. I’m not playing this game with you Mr. Alinsky.
It’s clear that you don’t. What you write is nothing like how atheists think.
Why should I waste my time? You (falsely) think you already know, and are rejecting corrections from myself and others. There’s no point trying to inform some-one who thinks they already know the answer and so reject anything different.
Added: Having seen your responses to @Tim_nz I’m even less inclined to try to inform you how and where you are wrong.
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He and others here are drowning metaphysical overreachers, male by pattern, who cannot abide the chill of an ordered yet ungrounded cosmos. The sea is not chaotic—it’s patterned, rhythmic, even beautiful—but it offers no hand, no voice, no telos. And so they thrash.
This is often a male response to metaphysical vertigo. The shrivelled corpus collosum creates rooms to hide in. Blankets to hide under. Sheds to bash out projects. The need to assert, to anchor, to dominate meaning in the face of its absence. It’s not just fear—it’s revulsion at the idea that reality might be indifferent.
Revulsion at external reality: Not because it’s ugly, but because it’s mute. The cosmos speaks in utterly probabilistically deterministic minimal prevenient laws, not love. And so metaphor becomes a lifeboat—overreaching, ornate, theological, poetic, anything to avoid the silence.
Unintentioned order: This is the cruelest paradox for them. The universe is not chaotic—it’s exquisitely ordered. But that order is not for them. It’s not authored. It’s not kind. It’s not cruel. It just is. And that is unbearable.
With thanks to my GPT interlocutor.